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The gates of hell are open night and day.
Late in the night, Caracalla can’t sleep. His thoughts are preoccupied with the spectacle of the day. The gladiator duel had delighted him; he reveled in the chaos of broken furniture and was satiated by the blood. But what remains through the bloodlust is Macrinus’ gladiator.
Caracalla hasn’t been able to get him out of his mind. The physical strength, the flash of his sword. Most of all he remembers the look on the gladiator’s face as he recited that verse to his brother. Pure hatred. Hot excitement settled in Caracalla’s belly at the thought that the Poet could have killed Geta where they stood. In a second he could have taken Caracalla’s brother from him, rendered Rome half as magnificent. Caracalla found himself utterly aroused by him. Just a slave, but there was power in those hands.
He wants to meet the Poet. He dresses and calls on his praetorians to escort him to Macrinus’ barracks. There is a chill in the night, and he draws his robes tight around him. Macrinus makes to welcome him, but Caracalla tires of his pretenses, insisting on seeing the gladiator right away.
When he enters the cell the Poet casts him a disinterested look from where he sits on the makeshift bed. He doesn’t rise. They’ve shackled his hands, Caracalla notes, only a short length of chain between them. For the emperor’s safety, he guesses, but they should know the Poet doesn’t need his hands to kill.
“Poet,” he says. Caracalla watches confusion cloud his eyes. He was expecting slave, gladiator.
He doesn’t give a response. Caracalla continues the conversation himself.
“I greatly enjoyed your fight today. I was hoping to speak with you, and to see some of that ruthlessness for myself.”
Silence.
Caracalla tries, “What is your name?”
The Poet merely stares at him, stoic. Caracalla waits for him to speak until his patience wears too thin. He grows petulant, annoyed that his interest was misplaced. This gladiator is merely another vengeful soldier who satisfies his anger by killing. Boring.
“Fine,” Caracalla hisses, “If you won’t entertain me, I will leave.”
He nearly makes it to the cell door before a quiet chuckle stops him. He turns, surprised by the gladiator’s sudden amusement.
“Want to know what I heard about the little emperor?” the Poet asks, sitting up and tilting his head so he can look down his nose at Caracalla. “I heard your cock’s all messed up.”
Caracalla’s eyes widen. Anger floods through him. His sickness is not spoken of, not in such vulgarity. He spits out, “Shut up.”
“I heard it’s deformed, all shriveled up and tiny.” The Poet smiles, sinister and arrogant. “No wonder all your slaves are men. You couldn’t please a woman if you tried.”
“Shut up!” Caracalla lunges at him, hands finding his strong throat. He lets the momentum of his body weight topple them over. He shoves a knee into the gladiator’s chest, hoping to further impair his breathing. All the while the Poet is smiling smugly at him. His shackled wrists rest on the bed above his head, relaxed. He does not fear Caracalla. Caracalla hates him for his courage and is stirred by it. “It’s not true!”
The Poet cocks an eyebrow. “No?”
“No!”
There’s a hardness in his eyes that Caracalla recognizes from the fight earlier. They rake over Caracalla’s face and down his body. A new emotion festers in them. Disgust. “You are the thing which rules Rome. Weak and defiled.”
Caracalla presses harder on his neck, satisfied at the wheeze that infiltrates his next breath. He sneers. “I am the emperor, slave. Rome loves me.”
The Poet laughs in his face. He feels the vibrations reverberate through his knee and up his thigh, the sound caressing his skin and settling at his cock. Caracalla has never seen such defiance.
“Tell me,” the Poet taunts. He surges up against Caracalla’s grip, voice strained but no less aggressive. “Does it affect your mind? Are you mad, little emperor?”
Caracalla whimpers. He feels overwhelmed by the gladiator’s hostility. The hatred with which he speaks scares him and entices him at once. Never before has he been so imminently threatened, and Caracalla finds a heady intoxication from putting his life in the shackled hands of Macrinus’ star gladiator. The Barbarian who despises Rome and its emperors most of all. An insurmountable heat has gathered between his thighs. He can’t help himself. He shifts from his perch, his hips lurching, searching for relief. He finds the ridges of the Poet’s abdomen.
A guttural sound escapes the Poet’s throat, and his eyes widen at the feeling of Caracalla’s hardness. Caracalla’s fingers flex around his neck.
The gladiator growls. He bucks up, undermining Caracalla and throwing him off to the side. The Poet rolls with him, catching his wrists and using the chain to imprison them. Displaying his height, the Poet stretches Caracalla’s hands painfully above them on the rough cotton, drawing the emperor taut beneath him. He leans down, sweaty curls brushing Caracalla’s forehead.
“You must be mad,” he murmurs. “I could kill you right now, with little effort, and you mean to corrupt me.”
Caracalla huffs and turns his head away. He stares out at the dusty cell while the gladiator breathes on the side of his face. His wrists are released, but despite the freedom he doesn’t move them. The Poet grabs his jaw and forces him to look at those blue, blue eyes. He holds Caracalla’s gaze as thick hands trail down Caracalla’s sides, over his hips, and pry open his thighs. The Poet settles between them, flush, but Caracalla feels no arousal from him.
“Should I kill you?” With his fingers dug into the soft flesh of Caracalla’s inner thighs and his eyes burning Caracalla’s face, he almost looks reverent, like a beast thanking the gods for its prey. He drops closer, nudges Caracalla’s cheek with his nose, and whispers, “Would that excite you, little emperor?”
Heat rushes through Caracalla and his hips instinctually roll up into the Poet’s. The gladiator smiles cruelly.
“This, too, is power.”
Caracalla’s robes are rucked up above his waist, exposing him to his conqueror. The Poet regards him with loathing interest.
“Ah, so the rumors are false.” Caracalla squirms at the remark, and squirms even more when the Poet’s dry hand wraps around him. His strokes are slow and painful. Caracalla arches his back to escape.
“Why so silent?” the gladiator rumbles in his ear. “I thought you wanted to talk?”
Caracalla lets out a shaky exhale. He brings his arms down to clutch at the Poet’s shoulders, who grunts, displeased, but does not remove them. Caracalla’s cock begins to leak, smoothing the glide of the Poet’s hand, and he feels the edges of relief creep up on him. The gladiator’s grip is tight, squeezing slightly around the head on each stroke, and Caracalla might really be going mad.
The Poet watches him carefully, blue eyes intense on his face like they’re waiting for something to happen. When his pace quickens, Caracalla scrabbles for purchase, fingers tangling in the curls at the gladiator’s nape. It earns him a snarl and a punishing squeeze, which only brings him closer to release. He moans and closes his eyes.
Caracalla teeters toward the edge, but as soon as his muscles tense and his mouth opens to cry out, the Poet abruptly stops and lets go of his cock. He whines unattractively and is about to complain until he sees the Poet’s hands move toward the hem of his tunic. He lifts the simple fabric to reveal his own cock.
He’s mostly hard from pleasuring Caracalla, and Caracalla through his hazy frustration has the wits to be slightly triumphant. He spreads Caracalla further and pumps himself a few times before positioning at Caracalla’s entrance.
Caracalla’s near-ecstasy shatters as the gladiator enters him. It’s too dry, and he’s catching every ring of muscle, pushing past and rubbing raw. The pain is too much for even Caracalla to bear.
“Wait,” he cries, “wait, wait!”
The Poet grunts, “So now you speak.”
Tears warp the Poet’s image. “Please, don’t you have anything—”
“For you, I have nothing.”
Caracalla weeps while the Poet buries himself. On the way out he feels a terrible burning sensation, followed by the warm slide of liquid. In fascinated horror he realizes something inside him has torn and he’s bleeding. He yelps, trying to get away, but the gladiator has a firm grip on his waist and he can’t escape. He can only endure the pain and hope pleasure comes quickly.
And as it turns out, the blood helps. Lack of lubrication no longer an issue, the Poet thrusts in and out of him in wet bursts. Slowly the sparks of arousal return to Caracalla, and he whimpers gratefully. The Poet slows his pace, spreading the blood as evenly as possible. Caracalla feels him fully harden inside him, marvels at the power of bloodlust.
He grasps the gladiator’s arms for purchase and starts to meet his thrusts. This brings him deeper and drives Caracalla even further toward oblivion. Speeding up, Caracalla imagines the Poet is chasing his own relief, desperate for what Caracalla can give him. Caracalla groans and clenches around him.
Finally, the gladiator makes a sound of pleasure, and Caracalla can pretend he has a lover.
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way.
“I am called Hanno.”
Caracalla knows the Poet has only given him his name for the gratification of hearing it upon the emperor’s lips as he releases. Caracalla has no intention of disappointing him.
Hanno rolls them over so that Caracalla is once more settled above him. He wraps his hands around slender hips, lacing his fingers together over his lower back. The chain follows, trapping Caracalla’s cock against his navel. The cold metal digs into the flesh and he hisses, delighting in the pain. His head falls back and Hanno sinks his teeth into the column of his throat. It’s not a gentle bite, but Caracalla cannot worry about his life now.
He knows what Hanno expects from him, and he sets a fast pace. The new angle alights nerves that couldn’t be reached before, drawing a deep moan from Caracalla. He feels Hanno twitch inside him. Caracalla watches him, the crease of his brow, the set of his mouth. Hanno is entirely focused on seeing himself disappear into Caracalla.
He helps guide Caracalla’s movements with the chain, meeting his hips with upward thrusts of his own. The metal digging into the underside of the head provides the most delicious pleasure. The pressure combined with the pure ecstasy inside him pushes him over the edge sooner than desired.
“Hanno,” he cries, spilling between them, covering his stomach and the chain.
Hanno’s eyes flutter shut at the sound of his name and he grips Caracalla’s waist with a new fervor, driving into him over and over. Caracalla collapses forward, shaking from overuse, barely holding himself up over the gladiator. He raves into Hanno’s chest until he feels him reach his own climax, groaning into Caracalla’s hair and releasing deep inside of him.
For a moment they lay there breathing, until Hanno pushes him up and off his cock. When he pulls out he is stained white and red, the mixture leaking identically from Caracalla.
He has nothing to clean himself with, so he swathes the inside of his robes and resigns himself to the indignity of his walk back to the palace. Hanno has resumed his position from when Caracalla first came to him. The heavy silence returns with it.
When Caracalla has gathered himself he says, “I hope to see you again, Poet.”
A slight glance is all the recognition he receives.
Caracalla leaves Macrinus’ barracks with the strange feeling that he has lost something.